Stepping through the doors of the Copacabana always feels like the start of an adventure, even if you're stopping for a coffee. When it opened in 1923 it represented the very height of sophistication in an exotic tropical paradise. Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner and Carmen Miranda flew in to laze under the palm fronds and gamble all night in the gold-leafed ballrooms. That old-school glamour is still here, twinkling away, while everything around it has changed (neighbouring Ipanema is far more fashionable than Copacabana these days). Its current owner, the Orient-Express group, recently spent $15 million to make sure the neo-classical beauty gleams brighter and whiter than ever, but the real secret to its enduring success is the service. With more than 600 staff, there is never a shortage of waiters, or eagle-eyed housekeepers to dust cobwebs from 254 high-ceilinged bedrooms. The three impeccable restaurants take care of both businessmen and bikini-clad beauties (the lunchtime seafood buffet in Pergola is sensational), while a new boutique, Villa Copa, leaves no excuse for sloppy swimwear - not that the pool boy would bat an eyelid.

Winston Churchill said Marrakech was 'the most lovely place in the world'; if he were around today he might prefer Oualidia, a dreamy spot on the edge of an Atlantic lagoon where minutes turn to hours with the ebb and flow of the languorous tides. From the hotel's beachfront terraces you can see the spray of the mighty breakers across the dunes and the monkey-puzzle trees that sprout above the pretty blue-and-white houses in the village. Ponder it all from beneath a grass-thatched parasol on a pontoon jutting into the water, or while floating in the aquamarine infinity pool. The hotel is built of local stone and has 11 rooms; it specialises in quiet intimacy with drinks round the fireplace in your room, a hot tub for two on your terrace, lobster picnics on a private beach or served fire-side from a Berber tent. There are vigorous scrub downs and massages in the spa and the food is exceptional: oysters, spider crab and sea bass are the house specialities and are bliss with a glass of crisp Mogador white from the nearby Val d'Argan winery.

Until three years ago, Tasmania's Freycinet Peninsula, with its pristine beaches, secluded bays and spectacular mountain formations, was something of a local secret, even though it's only about two hours' drive from Hobart. All that changed when Saffire Freycinet opened, duly transforming this slice of undiscovered wilderness into one of Australia's justifiably hottest destinations. The hotel is basically a sophisticated reimagining of the humble Tasmanian beach shack. But what a shack! The majestic main building, with its arching ribs of polished Tasmanian wood and curves of glass, resembles a gargantuan stingray from some angles, a wave from others; 20 self-contained suites are built into the regenerated bushland, all with decks facing the bay. Hugh Whitehouse is in charge at the Palate restaurant, drawing on local cool-climate wines and produce, such as truffles and the red samphire that covers the bayside rocks. There are 300 days of sun here per year, but when the nights get cold you'll find a sheepskin-covered hot-water bottle hidden in your bed.

The conservationist, hunter and walking-safari expert Richard Bonham opened this fantastic camp in the early 1990s on a prime spot in the Selous Game Reserve, where the Rufiji River bends lethargically on its long course to the Indian Ocean. It has been expanded and smartened up over the years, with the addition of suites and a handsome private satellite camp, Kiba Point; but the intrepid spirit of Bonham's original remains. The eight thatched guest bandas, set high on wooden platforms overlooking the river, are open-fronted, low-key and utterly in harmony with the environment; birdsong and the baritone chuckle of hippos is the constant, mesmerising soundtrack. Of course there are vehicles for game drives, but the point of this place is bush walking and learning to see the wilderness through the eyes of knowledgeable guides. The Rufiji River, too, is ripe for exploration: a crack-of-dawn boat safari to Stiegler's Gorge, past crocodiles flopping into the churning water, will paint vivid memories to last a lifetime. As will a night away from camp, sleeping under the stars on the edge of a lake after a hot bucket shower and candle-lit supper. Sweet dreams are indeed made of this.

At first glance, there is something classically beautiful, rather Graeco-Roman, about the Isle de France. The white lobby, with its unadorned white columns and angular white sofas, frames a square view of the deep blue sea and the lighter blue sky. The rooms are decorated with lovely prints of fluted shells and pointed amphorae. Zeus himself would feel at home here, if ever he grew weary of Olympus and felt in need of a Caribbean break. The calm interiors are a wonderful retreat from the hot sun, but Isle de France is all about the outdoors. The hotel sits on Flamands Bay, arguably the most perfect beach in the world. The bay is as curved and shiny as a scimitar, but at the same time it's as soft as pillows beneath your bare feet. Even the craggy nearby islands seem to have been carefully placed, as if by a meticulous stylist with an eye for seascape design. Take an early-morning stroll to the western end of the beach and back. It's a wonderful way to set yourself up for rolls and coffee, and for a new day on the island of St Barth's.

Its name translates as 'Maybe Tomorrow', reflecting the easy charm of one of Africa's most intriguing beach hideaways. Built on the south-western shores of Likoma Island on Lake Malawi, it started turning heads three years ago when new owners James Lightfoot and Nick Brown transformed it with the help of a $1-million investment. Lightfoot and his wife Suzie have taken the hand-crafted shell and turned it into something extraordinary: a tiny dot in remote Central Africa capable of taking on the big-gun resorts of Mauritius and Seychelles. Each of the 12 rooms is different, but all have polished concrete floors and big beds dressed with fabrics from Suzie's Katundu Textiles workshop, where women hand-stitch miniscule shells and beads onto soft, washed linens. Guests can take quad-bike tours of the villages and visit the incongruous, century-old St Peter's Cathedral, but Kaya Mawa's real appeal is undoubtedly as somewhere to unfurl in the sun, drink ice-cold South African Chenin Blanc and feast on grilled chambo fish, safe in the knowledge that, as a well-rested Scarlett O'Hara knew only too well, tomorrow is another day.

There's something about this hotel which stays with you long after you have left. It weaves its way into your heart until your memories of it become a place of refuge, a calm amidst the storm. Perhaps it is the omnipresent service - how wonderful to return to that childlike state of being looked after. In the cloakrooms, the water is run for you, the crisp linen laid out; step out of the pool and you are met with slippers and a warm towel; the waiter in the glamorous M Bar, with its views over the dazzling Hong Kong skyline, remembers just how you like its signature cocktail of 24-carat gold, elderflower, crème de violette and Champagne. It could also be the soothing spa, where tensions are pummelled away and meridians realigned, or the choice of restaurants from Cantonese to Michelin-starred French. But in the end it is simply a state of mind, where you know that everything is right with the world while you are here. And if it isn't, they'll fix it.

Set sky-high above the western shores of Lake Wanaka in New Zealand's spectacular Southern Alps, the country's first tented lodge is part of the Wallis family's 65,000-acre beef, deer and sheep station. This is classic Lord of the Rings territory, made all the more extraordinary by its limited access (helicopter only) and opportunities to heli-ski, trek, fish the pristine waters of the Tasman Sea, or even accompany Matt Wallis on a scenic chopper flight over Fiordland, landing on Dragonfly Peak for a grandstand view of the gloriously named Mount Aspiring. There are four authentic, insulated safari tents fitted with wall-to-wall, home-grown sheepskin carpets, heavenly possum throws and underfloor-heated bathroom pods that were air-dropped into place. Wooden decks have warming braziers and hot tubs for starry nights (there is no light pollution here). At the 'mountain kitchen', reached by wooden walkway, there are open fires where guests gather for meals prepared with fresh local produce including home-reared beef, lamb and venison, washed down with ace New Zealand wines.

On Frégate, nature and fine-tuned artifice coexist. Eat lunch on the terrace of your teak villa, with its private infinity pool, louvred doors and artfully scattered frangipani flowers, and a row of tiny, berry-bright birds sit along your veranda rail, hoping to steal your bread. And if you venture out into the wilderness, one moment you're sidestepping a giant tortoise and the next you're on a platform 100 metres up a tree, eating breakfast (cooked on a barbecue and winched up) from a table spread with damask as white as the fairy terns wheeling below. Frégate Island Private is at once a grand hotel and a conservation project. It has white-sand beaches strewn with purple cowrie shells the size of kiwi fruit, its own airstrip, solar-powered buggies for bumbling around the blossoming woodlands and a restaurant where the produce of the immense vegetable garden is transmuted into luscious oddities such as ylang-ylang scented hollandaise. This is Never Never Land with great service and a clear conscience: the hotel's takings fund the regeneration of the island's ecosystem.

The fortified medieval hamlet of Santo Stefano di Sessanio is a tight cluster of stone towers in the wild region of Abruzzo. In the Middle Ages it was prosperous thanks to wool production, and was for some time connected to the Medici family. Today, roughly a third of the village belongs to Daniele Kihlgren, a modest, Swedish-Italian entrepeneur who spent about five years and several million euros reinventing it as an albergo diffuso (a hotel with bedrooms in several buildings). It's the kind of place that will appeal to the time traveller in all of us: in Abruzzo, pagan rituals are still practised and centuries-old hermitages lie hidden deep in the mountains; and Sextantio itself - with its worn stone floors and low ceilings, some with ancient smoke stains - feels older than anywhere imaginable. Into this deep seam of history Kihlgren has inserted seamless infrastructure, designer lights, sleek glass-enclosed rain showers and Philippe Starck loos. Typical Abruzzese meals, such as maccheroni alla chitarra, are cooked by villagers using traditional recipes and ingredients, and supper, served in the candle-lit, restored stone hall, feels both mystical and thrilling. After a few glasses of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, you can almost see the ghosts.

Nikoi is a tiny isle in the South China Sea encircled by soft white sand; it looks like a Tropical Island screensaver. Although just 50 miles from Singapore, it takes almost three hours to get here, by scheduled ferry and transfer boat, and then you turn your watch back an hour. With only 15 beachside villas - very beautiful, made from gigantic beams of driftwood topped with jaunty, ylang-ylang grass roofs - there will never be many fellow-guests around. The eco-footprint on this pristine knoll has been carefully considered (sustainability website TreeHugger gave it a Best Eco-Resort gong in 2012) and in truth there is very little to do other than embrace the peace, snorkel in the sea and enjoy fresh seafood pastas or Indonesian curries at the sandy-floor, open-air restaurant. Between meals, there's always a jar of cookies and a bunch of bananas at the bar, a whimsical shack made of wood and bamboo, which is manned by a friendly man nicknamed Yogi, as talented at entertaining children as he is at making cocktails. And what could be more blissful than a bartender with babysitting skills?

Staying power isn't the norm in Downtown Manhattan, where a new hotel seems to pop up every other week; but Robert de Niro's Greenwich Hotel (a relative veteran at six years old) has pulled it off. That's because it gets everything right, from the TriBeCa location, where the West Side evening light bounces beguilingly off cobblestoned streets, to the Andrew Carmellini restaurant, Locanda Verde, which serves spot-on rustic Italian food (pappardelle with bolognese ragu and solo di bruna; roasted Brussels sprouts with pancetta and pecorino) and treads that tightrope between sceney and cosy like a Cirque du Soleil old-timer. The 88 bedrooms are all slightly different, with leather and velvet sofas, antique silk rugs and bathrooms lined with either Moroccan tiles or Carrara marble. Public spaces (for guests only) have a gentleman's club vibe and are hung with paintings by De Niro senior; an open fire crackles in the drawing room in winter, and there's an outside terrace for summer. The biggest boon of all is the lantern-lit Shibui Spa, which incorporates a pool and a 250-year-old Japanese bamboo farmhouse. It's the perfect place to take a break from this non-stop city and its prying eyes - as Miley Cyrus, Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Aniston and every other famous guest would agree.

The brilliant service at the Taj Mahal has meant maharajahs have always felt at home here and famous Westerners - George Bernard Shaw, Barack Obama, Mick Jagger - have stayed in their droves. But local couples have also courted over tea here, got married in the ballrooms, popped in for a pedicure. In 2008 the world watched in horror when terrorists attacked, but the Taj rose phoenix-like, better than ever. It has always been a world to itself, a proud monument on monumental scale: the dozen restaurants, bars and cafés include Wasabi by Morimoto for sushi, Souk for tagines and Kraft Marsala for superb Indian. There's a lovely pool and spa, a nightclub, the best English bookshop in town, and the most impressive staff and waiters in India. The interiors are as diverse as the country, a mix of aristocratic European, Mogul, Anglo-Indian; try and stay in the newly refurbished old section, which includes the Ravi Shankar suite where photos of the Beatles in India cover the walls (George Harrison was given lessons by the sitar master here). A few steps from the Taj is the Gateway of India, where it all begins. And ends. From the hotel you can see where Lord Mountbatten, the last Viceroy of India, tipped his hat as he left, and glanced back.

There is something thrilling about Bill Bensley's instantly classic monochrome scheme: the striped cane chairs placed out for a sundowner on the wooden slatted pier, the chequerboard marble of the bistro floor, the crisp sheets and plumped-up cushions in the bedrooms, even the white towels rolled up in neat piles on sunbeds by the Bathers Bar are edged with black piping. It's precise and considered and fantastically smart - Asian cool rather than Asian overkill - and with its private-house vibe makes this hotel the most brilliant bookend for a trip to Thailand, somewhere to decompress. You can kick back for days on end here: there are two terrifically good restaurants (one set in a 100-year-old original Thai teak house), a vast and deeply cosseting Opium spa with a hammam and Sodashi treatments, an authentic Muay Thai boxing gym, a library chock-full of fascinating historical mementos and a museum-worthy art collection, and a screening room with vintage cinema chairs. When you do want to venture out, instead of bracing yourself for a tedious traffic jam in a taxi, you can hop onto the hotel's sleek, grey, canvas-topped longtail boat and whip all the way down the Chao Praya to Sathorn Pier. There can be no better way to stay and see the city.

A century ago, when Baroness Noémie de Rothschild decided she'd had her fill of St Moritz, she impulsively chose the sleepy, sunlit village of Megève to build an exclusive ski resort. But after five decades of glam glory (these are the powdery slopes where Audrey Hepburn meets Cary Grant in Charade, after all), the fashionable set moved on and Megève fell from grace. At least until local couple Jocelyne and Jean-Louis Sibuet turned things around by opening Les Fermes de Marie in 1989, a 70-bedroom hamlet of nine interlinked chalets made with materials salvaged from 100-year-old farmhouses. Splurge on a suite, a plush cocoon of soothing whites and muted greys with country antiques, beamed ceilings and open fireplaces for winter (although this is a mountain refuge for all seasons, with wildflower-covered hiking trails, and an indoor and outdoor pool). The real draw is the spa, where signature treatments include an energising edelweiss-honey facial. But for the complete refined-rustic experience, a slice of the Alpin restaurant's raclette and blueberry pie should be compulsory.

There was never any doubt this bolthole would bring innovation to the New Forest when it opened in 2011. With Hotel du Vin creator Robin Hutson at the helm, how could it fail? Call this a hotel, or a restaurant with rooms (26 in all, some in the main house, a former hunting lodge, others in refashioned outbuildings). What really matters is that The Pig gathers our current obsessions under one roof. Artisan produce? Food is sourced nearby or homegrown; guests are encouraged to stroll through the walled kitchen garden with enough raised beds to make Monty Don weep. Retro chic? Settle yourself into the bar where distressed leather chairs, mismatched vintage glasses and a snifter of Fernet Branca will deliver the country-retreat vibe you've been dreaming of. Add a smokehouse (kippers for breakfast), a treatment room in a shed (smells by Bamford) and muddy woodland walks to preface menus (wild-mushroom soup; roast wood pigeon with sloe sauce), and you have the very definition of modern-British weekend perfection.

Well, this is proper country. Grasses tall as ladders; rivers that run through it; shiny black Angus cattle like full stops on pages and pages of fields. This is ranching, but souped-up to the max, with private houses and hot tubs, an entire tented spa camp and sensational steaks to go with full-thottle Martinis. You won't have a minute to spare here, there's so much to do: herd cattle, quad bike, white-water raft, ride on gorgeous steeds through clouds of butterflies and daisies with heads as big as hands. Each night there'll be a singalong or a jaunt on a horse- drawn caravan to a certain spot in the river for barbecues and s'mores. Children throw sticks and catch crickets and pet goats and make new friends; adults find themselves on the most extraordinary adventures, covered in dust, yelling like banshees, and secretly hoping that Max, a cowboy with his jeans pulled up high over his bottom, will take notice of their skills. It's the most super-slick, high- energy lodge in the Wild West and it's brilliant.

The Resort at Paws Up, Paws Up Road, Greenough, Montana, USA, (+1 406 244 5200; www.pawsup.com). Brown + Hudson (www.brownandhudson.com) offers a four-night stay for a family of five in a River Camp at the Resort at Paws Up from £8,500, including some activities and all meals. Excludes international flights

Relaxation and Rajasthan rarely go hand in hand; most travellers blast through it in a blur of palaces and forts, jewellery ateliers, textile bazaars, tiger-spotting and elephant-back rides. Thank goodness, then, for Amanbagh, a gentle retreat in a peaceful rural hamlet just two hours' drive from Jaipur. Designed by Aman's American architect Ed Tuttle, this is a contemporary take on a Mughal palace, built of rose-pink sandstone and marble by Rajasthan's master craftsmen and artisans using age-old techniques. Mornings are heralded with abundant birdsong and the sound of bells and chanting from the nearby Barakhambi Hindu temple. There is an easy, distinctive sense of place: nearly all the staff come from neighbouring farms and villages and guests are encouraged to explore the countryside by bike, horse or even camel. Chef Bhargava Naresh creates spectacular meals from organic produce grown in the gardens, including biriyanis from his hometown of Hyderabad. (For those needing some respite from Indian spices there's a superb Western menu.) Private dinners are served in a chhatri (a small domed building) overlooking a lake, where hundreds of flickering candles light the evening, and gentle melodies are provided by Raghuveer, a master flute player. It is all utterly, impossibly romantic.

This is the most sensational place from which to experience the silent snowscapes, lilac-blue light and polar bears of the Arctic: a 16-room outpost from Basecamp Explorer on the island of Spitsbergen. A hip interpretation of a trapper's station - with sackcloth on the walls, reindeer antlers, sealskin cushions and tree-trunk bunks lit by fishermen's lamps - the hotel is insanely cosy, soberingly stylish, and beautifully evocative of the island's whaling, hunting and exploring past. Top spots are the Cognac Loft museum with its windows in the ceiling for gazing at the Northern Lights, and a long dining table beneath a map of Arctic exploits where you can sit on log chairs and pretend you're planning an expedition. As, indeed, you might be: perhaps to Isfjord Radio, a 1930s radio station-turned-boutique hotel with cashmere throws and a piping-hot sauna, 100km across the ice by snowmobile; or to Ship in the Ice, a 100-year-old schooner with 10 cabins, 60km away by husky-drawn sledge. Finding this level of comfort in such a brutal wilderness is surreal; the fact you that you can experience it over a long weekend from London is mind-boggling.

The little-travelled road from Puerto Natales to Chilean wilderness lodge Tierra Patagonia laces through marvellous, archetypal Patagonian sheep country before ending at a simple red gate, the only man-made feature in a vast landscape of broad bowls and sweeping valleys. It's a tribute to architect Rodrigo Ferrer that the lodge itself, with its 40 bedrooms smartly done out in lenga beechwood and natural wool, is near-invisible from above. A two-storey, plate-glass window dominates the impressive principal salon; bedrooms, too, drink in that view of big sky and tufted grasses, the bright-blue waters of Lake Sarmiento and the jagged peaks of Torres del Paine. The owners, the American-Chilean Purcell family, set out to provide extreme comfort in testing terrain, a refuge for guests to return to having braved buffeting Patagonian gales by day, rambling with expert naturalist guides. And how brilliant it is to come back at dusk to a peppered-beef supper paired with a glass of mineral-rich Matetic syrah, and then to sprawl on a lambswool sofa and gaze out as the setting sun picks out the Torres' granite-and-basalt peaks.